


Égalité

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Christmas, Class Differences, M/M, Not Beta Read, Violent Thoughts, reversal of fortunes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: The tables turn.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 26
Kudos: 12
Collections: Trope Bingo: Round Fourteen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a rather pointless one-shot but then, months later, I decided to continue it. Where will it lead? I have only the vaguest Idea. Let's see if I figure it out.

It has been recorded that John Childermass and Mr Lascelles reached a state of near-open enmity in late 1816 over a case of mismanagement of Mr Norrell’s correspondence, but it was not the first of their disagreements. One such happened over the translation of a letter in French about the Absaloms’ stay at the court of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Rain had been falling on London for most of the morning, turning the streets muddy and the indoor light grey and dull. It drummed on the windows of the library at the house in Hanover-street and had driven Mr Norrell to bed with a headache, a book, and a foot warmer. One might wonder why Mr Lascelles, who took pride in his pristine appearance, had braved the weather, but after years of never comfortable association, John Childermass did not marvel at it. Magic had a way of occupying one’s thoughts to a degree that dwarfed all other concerns, and it had been apparent for some time to Childermass, if not to the gentleman himself, that Lascelles was as addicted to it as were Mr Norrell and Mr Strange. They had work to do; and so the work would be done, whatever the weather.

The two men occupied themselves, as always when proximity was unavoidable, at opposite ends of the library, Childermass at his small table and Lascelles at another, larger writing-desk under a window. Childermass’s work that morning consisted of cross-referencing lists of cunning folk and suspected witches of the last century with local birth records, a task which made no great demand on his attention. He became aware, in a distant way, of Mr Lascelles shifting in his seat and picking up a paper already inspected, of a frustrated sigh, and then the clatter of an inkwell too forcefully set down.

It had been his mother Joan’s way when nothing was going her way to rattle about angrily for a while before exploding. Mr Norrell’s rising temper, though expressed through more fidgeting, also had its warning signs. At the prospect of Mr Lascelles’s pique, Childermass simply tidied up his papers, corked his inkwell, and put his finished work in a drawer to keep it safe from any of Lascelles’s petty shows of dominance.

“Childermass,” Lascelles called after a while. “Come here.”   
  
Childermass finished the line he had been begun on a new sheet without looking up. “What is it?”

There was the scrape of a chair as it was pushed back and the click of Lascelles’s heels across the floor. Three sheets of paper dropped on top of Childermass’s list. “What is this?” 

He looked slowly up at Lascelles’s tight-lipped face, then glanced at the papers. “Can you not read, Mr Lascelles? It is a translation of Pagez’s letter from Jedburgh.”

“The third paragraph on the second page, if you please.” 

Childermass read it, taking his time. “Yes? I see no error.”

“No error. No, perhaps there is no error, but I see you have left intact Pagez’s suggestion that Absalom may have been sent there on orders of the English. This is to be published, at least in part, in a paper, Childermass. You didn’t think it might cause some controversy to claim a magician may have murdered Darnley, or made an attempt on the life of a queen?”

Childermass sat back, rolling onto the back legs of his chair—a fine carved oakwood thing selected by Drawlight all those years ago—and crossed his arms. “It says what it says, _sir_.” 

Lascelles’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders inched imperceptibly upwards, while his hands tightened into fists. Childermass squared his jaw in anticipation, almost wishing the man would give in to his obvious impulse and strike him, here and now, where no-one was around to witness what either of them did next. If it wasn’t for the damage it would do to Norrell's standing, Childermass would have taken Lascelles to task long ago, and sod all his wealth and exalted ancestry. Under all that finery there was a body as breakable as any other, and they both knew it.

Then Lascelles moved his jaw and his features shifted back into their usual veneer of bored disdain. He pulled himself up. “If you will allow, Childermass, I will address you for a moment as something of an equal.” 

Childermass raised his brows. “Aye? That would be a change, sir.”

“Due to the nature of our occupations in relation to Mr Norrell, we must perforce share our insights with one another. So allow me to say, as your… _colleague_ … that I would appreciate a little less accuracy and a little more forethought in the future. In order to make this letter ready for print, I would have to translate this section anew, and likely the following sheets as well, merely to accommodate your oversight.” 

“Speaking as your equal, then, Lascelles,” said Childermass, lingering on that last name without its heretofore necessary honorific, “fuck you.” 

He had expected the man’s face to turn to astonishment or rage—instead, though his eyes widened in surprise, something like a smile also twisted his mouth. It was almost as if he had been hoping for that response, much as Childermass had idly wished for a slap.

This dislike had been brewing between them since the first time Lascelles had appeared uninvited in Norrell’s circles, like a shark swimming in the wake of the far more harmless Mr Drawlight. It was time for Lascelles to make the next move. The potential of it crackled between them like sparks from an electrical contraption. 

Lascelles simply leaned in, his breath ghosting across Childermass’s cheek. This close, he could smell the perfume traces his handkerchief had left on his skin. “Wouldn’t you like that?”  
With that, he turned back towards his own desk. “Rewrite your own translation, Childermass. It will be made palatable or it will not be printed; it is quite that simple.”

Childermass considered grasping the short hair on the back of Lascelles’s head and yanking him back, shoving him against the desk and bruising that clean, well-tended skin. Instead, he sat down, uncorked his inkwell and recovered his finished lists from the drawer. 

Pagez’s letter would not be published in English until 1843. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr Lascelles receives urgent news.

Although the matter of the letter was thus left behind them, details of the conversation persisted in the mind of Henry Lascelles. The light in which he viewed it varied according to his overall mood at the time at which he happened to be reminded of it. 

Were he high in spirits after an evening of good company, lively discussion and decent dining, arriving at his house in Bruton-street still in a pleasantly argumentative mood, he might lay it out as an example of the sort of danger that was still posed by rampant pro-democratic rhetoric, of the elevation of the low, and the lowering of the high; how the inferior stock, when given the opportunity, traded insults rather than arguments.

Were he particularly pleased with himself, mellow with comfort in his own bed (or that of another), he might look back upon it as a victory of sorts—it was rather something to have coaxed a vulgarity out of the impenetrable John Childermass, whose insolence generally took a subtler form, and one that was far more infuriating, as it was difficult to address without appearing unreasonable oneself.

Were he just on the edge of sleep, slipping into the confusion of dreams, he would remember the nearness of Childermass’s breath on his cheek, the splash of a different kind of excitement that undercut his elation at those two words—but this was not something he would ever allow in sober moments, least of all to himself, for very many reasons. 

One night in mid-December, Lascelles returned from an evening at Lady P—’s to find out from Emerson, who had spoken to Mr Norrell’s footman Lucas, that Childermass would soon return to London from one of his journeys into the countryside. The thought fired up his already stimulated imagination, and he spent the duration of his evening toilet imagining what it would be like to share Norrell’s library and attention with that ragged shadow of a Yorkshire rake-hell once more.

Childermass had been gone close to three weeks, and Lascelles had spent the time productively. Much had been written and discussed in the man’s absence, and Lascelles had not neglected to pepper his conversation with Mr Norrell with the notion that the lower classes ought not play any significant part in serious research, as they had not the benefit of a formal education, nor any notion of the organization involved. It was slow work, but he was sure of its eventual efficacy. 

No doubt Childermass noticed his efforts. Childermass, damn the man, noticed everything. 

Of course, Lascelles did not need to oppose Childermass in this way. He did not wish to. It was beneath a gentleman to consider himself rival to a man like that. If only Childermass were more respectful, more biddable… if only he agreed to be guided by Lascelles, and be as loyal to him as he was, now, to Norrell—why, then… 

(It was at this point that Mr Lascelles, who had retired to bed, began to dip further into sleep. His face was freshly washed, his feet were warmed by the coal pan, and the rough edge of tipsiness had been purified by a glass of the clean water he had brought to him daily from upriver. He was, in fact, supremely comfortable.)

One could not govern a man like Childermass through money or fear. Such a man did not lust for gold, and would scoff at threats of violence. To blackmail him would be exhausting—a game of wits without an end. But to be respected by him, to be admired… If Lascelles could wind his fingers around what black hulk of heart still beat in his chest—or his cock, if the former could not be achieved—what man could not be led, then? 

It was an idle thought, and not at all workable. Those black eyes saw through every lie and pretense, and laughed at one for even attempting prevarication. Childermass possessed in abundance the gift of cynicism, which believed in nothing kind or good, and so saw every facade for what it was. In that, at least, the two of them were alike.

But at the edge of sleep, where shame or reason could not interfere, Lascelles imagined Childermass seduced, Childermass his, and was very pleased with the fantasies his sleepy, contented state produced. 

The following morning dawned soft and bright and clean. Snow had fallen overnight and covered London’s muddy roads and parks in a white shroud. It served that exact purpose elsewhere in the city, where some unfortunates had lain down outside when the previous night had been dry but chilly, and would not get up again. It piled up on the grills of Mr Lascelles’s bedroom window, the smell of ice trickling inside. It did not wake him. He was warm under his blankets, and merely turned to his side to avoid the slash of light creeping across the floor towards his four-poster bed. The fire would already have been lit in his study and in the drawing room, and heat had begun to radiate from the chimney into the heart of the house. 

It was the knocking that woke him, an urgent hammering at his door. This was most unusual, and every pound drove a nail into his head. His servants, which were few, were all under strict instructions not to wake him before noon at the earliest, and even then only if there was sufficient reason to warrant it. What would constitute sufficient reason, he expected them to work out themselves. 

“Mr Lascelles, sir,” came a voice from beyond the door. Smythe. Lascelles reluctantly peeled himself off the pillow. Smythe, the senior footman, had been in Mr Lascelles’s service for nearly twenty years, and was perhaps the only one of his servants he would trust to know what was important and what was not. 

“Enter, damn you,” Lascelles called out as he threw the covers aside and reached for the dressing-gown waiting on its hook beside the bed. “What is it?”

Smythe pushed the door open with care, which only served to irritate Lascelles more. “Sir, the post came early this morning. The _Genevieve_ has been sunk off the coast of Italy—”

  
“I see,” said Lascelles, tying his dressing-gown’s belt. “No matter. I have her insured. And I still have—”

“And the _Arsinoë_ is feared lost in the Atlantic.”

A coldness that had nothing to do with the snow crept up Lascelles’s neck. “Insured," he insisted.

Smythe shook his head.

Lascelles could feel his jaw tighten. “Explain.”

“Hawksworth & Sons cannot bear the cost, sir. They have declared bankruptcy.”

Lascelles sat back on his bed. “I still have—”

“Uthcaire, sir.” 

Uthcaire. A neglected estate, with a sorry rundown village attached, which Lascelles had barely visited in years. Its maintenance had been a drain on his income. He struggled to remember his last tailor’s bill, but it would be more money than Uthcaire could produce in five years. 

He had lost—everything. 


	3. Chapter 3

John Childermass had not yet been a week back in London before he began to notice the absence of Henry Lascelles in Hanover-square. As it was nearly Christmas, any gentleman might, of course, be visiting relatives in the country, but Childermass had never known Lascelles to do so around this time of year. It was too precious a period in the middle of the parliamentary sessions; besides, Mr Lascelles did not seem very fond of his relations. 

“Oh, he has been redecorating,” said Drawlight, when Norrell remarked upon it. He covered his smiling lips with the tips of his gloved fingers as he spoke. Norrell took no notice of the gesture, only complaining that such trivial matters should keep anyone away from the cause of English magic, but Childermass saw it. He stalked Drawlight into the corner of the library where the little man had his habitual seat beside the window, where he could watch the street without being seen, and leaned into his light. “Pardon me, sir, but is there perhaps something more you could tell us about the late preoccupations of Mr Lascelles?”

“It is terrible, really,” said Drawlight, who had only needed to be asked. “He has lost a ship at sea, or so they say, and has decided to give up the house on Bruton-street for a rented one in Liverpool to be near the insurers and their lawyers until the sum is paid, and so avoid dipping into his capital. Pray do keep it quiet—if the tailors of London ever hear of it, they will all collect at once, and then our friend would really be in trouble!”

“It seems excessive,” Childermass mused, “to sell a house one has kept for years, simply to follow up on an insurance case.” This Drawlight could only answer with a shrug.

Childermass might have been glad of the respite from Henry Lascelles’s oily, taxing presence on Hanover-square, were that the only thing the man provided. That he had made himself a necessary evil in Norrell’s life became all the more apparent later that day when the matter of the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s second secretary’s stolen ledger came to their doorstep. 

Discretion must draw a shroud over the exact circumstances of the ledger’s disappearance and later recovery, but on that day—after Drawlight had departed through the back, having spotted the familiar figure of a debtor on the street, and Norrell had complained of cold feet and poor light and taken up to his study with a foot-warmer—Hanover-square saw a flurry of agitated officials, none of whom would take Childermass’s word that his confidence would be as good as Mr Norrell’s. No, they simply could not tell what the problem was; they needed Mr Norrell’s (or Mr Strange’s) magic most urgently; they could not come back tomorrow. 

The greeting and deflecting of nervous politicians had been Lascelles’s role of late. It was he who spoke to the staff of members of parliament, he who ascended the steps to the House of Commons to mix with the associated gentlemen in the lobby and familiarize himself with how the law was applied to matters that concerned magicians and magic. It was not work Childermass would have wanted, even had he fulfilled the necessary requirements.

In the end, he simply turned everybody out, took note of their complaints and entreaties, and left the note on a tray in the library for Norrell to discover in the morning after he had come up from his breakfast. He then donned his hat and his weather-beaten, sooty-black greatcoat and took himself down the few snowbound streets to Mr Lascelles’s house.

He found the doors flung open. As he watched from the shadows between street-lamps, he saw two workmen carry out an exquisite writing-desk into a waiting cart with the sign of a well-known auctioneer painted on the side. The house was lit, golden light spilling onto the tarnished snow from the drawing room and the flickering of firelight playing on the eaves of an upstairs window. The workmen returned twice more, bringing out a Wedgwood vase carefully wrapped in paper and cloth, as well as two drawing-room armchairs with a carpet slung across them. Childermass approached only as they drove off. 

Arthur Smythe opened the door. “He’s not in,” he said.

“Come on now, Arthur. It may be I can be of assistance.” 

Smythe raised his bushy eyebrows, revealing a glint of beady, intelligent eyes. 

“On my conscience be it.” Childermass pressed his hand to his chest, though he could not suppress a touch of smile. His conscience had more than a few things weighing it already and would not suffer greatly from the increase. But Smythe stood aside, nodding in the direction of the drawing room.

Lascelles startled and spun around as Childermass entered. He took in the sparseness of the once wonderfully decorated room, the disarray of Lascelles’s hair where he had evidently drawn his fingers through it, and the paper in Lascelles’s hand that looked like a list of items. The man did not quite look haggard; he did not look his smoothest, either. 

Childermass merely leaned on the doorjamb and said nothing, watching Lascelles’s surprise transform into a thin-lipped frown. “How much do you know?” he demanded. 

“Liverpool, Mr Lascelles?”

“I would have told Mr Norrell before I departed. There was no need to go sniffing about my affairs.”

“And when would we expect you back?”

Silence. 

“I will find out in time either way, Mr Lascelles.”

Lascelles tilted his chin up and turned away. “I will not be returning in the foreseeable future. I mean to call upon Mr Norrell and offer my regrets before I go. You understand the need for secrecy—one wishes to auction one’s belongings without the appearance of urgency, in order to attain the best possible prices…” He trailed off again. 

“Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass quietly, “exactly how much did you lose?”

“That is no concern of yours!”

Childermass pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the floor. “You must not leave London, sir. I cannot allow it. We are knee-deep in secretaries and bill propositions. You must at least allow us time to find another to do what you do.” 

“Everything, Childermass,” Lascelles snapped. They were now mere inches apart, and Childermass could see the shadows under Lascelles’s eyes. His voice dropped low; his intake of breath was audible, animal. Childermass allowed himself to take a twisted pleasure in it. “I have lost everything. Don’t you see? I cannot appear in the House’s lobby in yesterday’s clothes, or receive exalted guests in rented lodgings. What I did, what I have been doing for Mr Norrell, I can do no more. It is over.”

“It need not be. The solution is simple. You need an income.”

“I will not take a loan.”

“No, indeed,” said Childermass, and here he very nearly laughed out loud, but held his mirth back, let it tickle his throat. “And why should you, when all you have to do is accept a salary for your services?”

Lascelles did not bluster at this; he merely went very quiet and very still for a moment—the only outward sign that he had registered the insult at all. “Get out of my house.” 

Childermass donned his hat. “I’ll leave it with you, then, sir. But pray do not hesitate too long. Mr Norrell will need you at Hanover-square tomorrow at ten.”

As the cold air embraced him once more, John Childermass allowed himself the pleasure of imagining Henry Lascelles a salaried servant. What could be worse? 

What, indeed, to a man like that?


	4. Chapter 4

By morning the snow had formed drifts on the sides of the streets. It would become packed hard under passing feet and, when the cold snap receded, turn every alley into a hazard with melted water on top of a knobbly carpet of ice. For now, it still provided good purchase for a fine pair of Hessian boots. Henry Lascelles walked it well aware of how short-lived this comfort would be. 

Mr Norrell’s door opened for him as easily as ever before, the familiar footman making haste to get out of his way. A gaggle of gentlemen in sober black coats milled about like a murder of crows in the hall, talking to one another in urgent whispers. “There! See, it is him—” said one, spotting Lascelles. “Mr Norrell?” asked another, gazing up at the staircase, where the way up was barred to them by good manners—and by John Childermass, who stood with his arms crossed, one foot on the third step, one on the fourth. “No, no—” said a third, “it is Lascelles.”

Lascelles adopted an expression of gravity as he handed his hat and cape to the footman. The political gentlemen flocked to him. He was conscious of a certain sense of satisfaction as they did, their white-gloved hands fluttering and gesturing, their expressions varying from hopeful to wary but each with the same intensity of attention. “Gentlemen, please,” Lascelles said, pulling himself up, “we can speak in the drawing room.”

“Yes,” said a square little man with a lopsided wig, glancing first at the footman, then behind him, at the staircase. “Where there are fewer ears.”

Lascelles met Childermass’s eye over their heads and was glad he had decided to come after all.

-

“Will we see Mr Norrell today, do you think?” Lascelles asked Childermass an hour later. The two had the library to themselves, the gentlemen of the parliament having been dispatched with assurances of utmost confidentiality. Lascelles had only just finished repeating their every word to John Childermass. 

Oh, he might have twisted the truth to his own benefit, or held some of it back to use against the man later, but what would have been the point? He had only come this morning out of curiosity, or so he told himself; he certainly had no intention of accepting Childermass’s proposition. He would have been loathe to say that any feeling of loyalty had driven him to Hanover-square. Lascelles made a point, as he often mentioned, of never allowing sentiment to guide his actions. Even so, he would have to admit that the morning’s activity had left him in a certain state of equilibrium, one that he had not experienced in days.

Lascelles hated the idea of being _useful_ , but being _needed_ … that was another matter.

“Eventually,” said the Yorkshireman and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. It creaked under his shifting weight, its feet scraping the floor. 

Lascelles nodded. Mr Norrell avoided not only crowds, but areas in which crowds had recently been, as if the ghosts of their presence might suffocate him. Perhaps they did. Magicians were, by nature, eccentric. Lascelles leaned on the edge of a desk and crossed his arms, mirroring Childermass. 

Lascelles studied the man. There was no use trying to judge the expression of those dark, mocking eyes, or read the twist of his mouth. The stance, however—waiting, lounging—like a gambler at the end of a long night who had settled in to stay until the very last hand. Long legs in their black socks, scuffed edges in the shoes, the suggestion of a rider’s physique. 

He would have liked to wait him out, but as the silence stretched, he found he could bear it no longer. “This does not mean I intend to stay, let alone—Well, you know what you have suggested. It would be quite impossible.”

“I do not see how it is so, sir. It happens all the time.” 

“I am not a secretary,” Lascelles snapped, “nor would the gentlemen who were here this morning have respected me if I were. I am Mr Norrell’s friend. My interest in English magic is my own. That is why they speak to me, and not to you. So you see, your proposition is perfectly ridiculous, and I frankly doubt Norrell would agree to it.”

“The decision would not be Mr Norrell’s,” said Childermass. “He has no notion of your troubles. I am allowed a budget to spend as I wish in the interests of our cause. Your pay would come out of that, and no-one else would need to know.”

So Lascelles would not be employed by Mr Norrell, but by… Lascelles’s breath caught for a moment at the back of his throat, and he pressed his lips together tightly. But he had come prepared for more insults. This was no time to lose control of one's temper. He pushed off the desk and paced, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“How much would you need?” asked Childermass. “To keep up appearances, so to speak.” 

“Oh, a hundred pound a week at least,” said Lascelles, distracted by the patterns of ice on the windows. “What is it you find so amusing?” He turned, having recognized the choked chortle of Childermass’s laughter.

“Fifty will do,” said Childermass. “As much in a year would be a fortune to most. If you need more, I should like to know what it is to be spent on.” 

Lascelles thought of his capital. He should never have touched it. He had had some foolish idea of using the fantastic profit the two ships might make to finance works on Uthcaire, to make the place livable again, fit for a member of parliament—perhaps even a lord, if he played his cards right in the long run. Had only one been lost, he would have been able to make some profit on the other even before the insurance was paid. He’d never thought he’d lose both. In the version of events he had told Drawlight, the _Arsinoë_ was still on her way, and he had chosen his insurers more wisely.

How long could he keep up such a charade? Under the thumb of this dirt-common wretch, no less? He should not even be considering it. No, he ought to disappear quietly into the country and see what he could do with what he had left. Society would be done with him, and its memory was long. He would simply fade away. No more politics. No more opportunities for distinction. 

He swallowed, tightening his hands into fists. “No one would know?”

“Not a soul.” 

_Damn_ the man. 


	5. Chapter 5

The cook put a steaming mince-pie down in front of Childermass, its crust only slightly wobbly. Norrell’s new kitchen maid, Hannah, had made this patch for the servants’ Christmas Eve dinner, practice for when she might one day be given the opportunity to bake for the master’s table. Childermass nodded her his compliments and watched the girl tilt her chin up proudly.

The household was at its leisure this evening since Mr Norrell had been persuaded by the Stranges to spend the Eve at Sir Walter’s. He would no doubt return as soon as it was decent, after perhaps one recital in the drawing-room, but dinner would not take place until ten o’ clock at the earliest. By midnight, everything would be cleared up, Mr Norrell’s bed made ready and a fire lit in his crate, and he would never spare a thought to anything but his book, his candle, and his night’s rest. 

For now, Norrell’s third-best wine was being passed around the table in the servants’ hall while more pies appeared, accompanied by jellies and morsels. The table was strewn with greenery picked up from the market this morning and candles lit across its length, casting their faint light on smiling faces. Voices rose high, animated, wild with unaccustomed license. Childermass had already caught Davey mouthing the words to ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ and expected to be treated to a performance before the end of the meal. Morning would come soon enough, with the regular duties beginning at five for the maids who lit the fires, and pausing only when it was time for church.

The cook settled down a seat at last, moaning about her bones while the maids fussed to bring her a plate and take others away. The footmen flirted with the maids, and the maids in turn tried to catch one another under the mistletoe hung near where the hall opened into the hallway, past the entrance to the butler’s pantry. It was all larks and high spirits, of course; there were no romances budding in Mr Norrell’s household, or Childermass would have known about it. 

Davey’s bellowy hymn was followed by most of the table joining together in a folk song only nominally about spring and stolen cheese. Yawns appeared as midnight approached, and at Childermass’s nod the cook begun to orchestrate the clean-up. The maids brushed the greenery away into a bucket. the dirty plates and cups were carried into the kitchen, and the bottle’s last dregs dripped out and consumed (by Hannah). Davey and Lucas, still humming and leaning on one another, made their noisy way up the servants’ stairs, towards their shared room up in the attic. 

Childermass handed the cook a candle as she, too, ascended, leaning heavily on the hand-rail, and took another to the butler’s pantry to have a look at the household ledger while he awaited Mr Norrell’s return. What with the addition of another household expense—and not an inconsiderable one—he had yet to balance the books for the end of the year. He would not let Mr Lascelles’s salary diminish the amount put aside for gifts on Boxing Day.

It was not long after midnight that he heard a carriage pull up outside, and was half out of his chair, the book snapped shut, before it had even come to a close. Had Lucas opened the door for him with wine still on his breath, Childermass doubted Norrell would have noticed, but it was Christmas Eve. No-one else had needed stay up; he had made as much clear. He crept up the servants’ stairs into the hall and pulled the door open to the sting of frosty air. 

Norrell was not alone. “There you are, Childermass,” said the First Magician of England, his face pinched in a look of misery. “Awful—awful! I wish to go to bed. Mr Lascelles, as far as I am concerned, you may do as you wish. But I will think about your suggestions more tomorrow. Childermass, please.”

Childermass took his one candle with him and did not bother to light another as the tall figure in a fashionable hat followed them into the hall. He led Norrell upstairs and returned a moment later to find Lascelles had lit three of the hallway candles and was stalking the hall from side to side with his hands joined behind his back. 

“If you wish to claim your berth with the other servants, Lascelles, I’m afraid all the beds in the attic are all occupied.”

“You are teasing me. I will not rise to it.” But Childermass could see his shoulders move up and down once, as if shaking off an invisible cloak. “I must speak to you, where we will not be overheard.”

Childermass shrugged and nodded to the servants’ stairs. Seeing Lascelles did not understand, he opened the discreet door under the staircase. Lascelles made a noise of disgust, but snatched one of the candles and followed him down below. 

Even during the day, the basement was smoky and dark. Now it was pitch-black and thick with the smell of cooking. Childermass settled his candle into a holder beside the butler’s pantry and Lascelles did the same with his. 

Childermass could guess what this would be about. The last he had seen the man, he had just accepted a bank-note for fifty pounds with the air of someone being handed a piece of moldy toast. “Well?”

“I need more,” said Lascelles. Childermass nodded. Of course. “You said you could give me more, if I gave you a good reason for it. Well, the reason is obvious enough. I told Drawlight I would go to Liverpool to make a case against my insurers, but of course I had no funds to spare for a lawsuit, and would simply have gone to the country. However, now that things are—different—I rather think it is precisely what I ought to do. A few weeks’ stay, then, with lodgings, and the initial payment to a solicitor…”

“That is not an inconsiderable sum. And how would that advance the cause of English magic, sir?” 

“How! It would give me a chance to recover my standing. We agreed this is something to be desired, did we not?”

“You’d earn your pay better finding someone to replace you,” said Childermass. “Someone not quite as foolish as Lord Portishead, nor as avaricious as Mr Drawlight.”

“Replace me! You cannot replace me. There is no one else.” 

“Aye? Then I suppose we must train someone up. Perhaps one of Mr Strange’s academic friends. I could ask you to run an advertisement in the _Friends_ : Seeking politically minded gentleman of decent income to join the inner circle of England’s foremost magicians. An interest in letters required; a nasty temper, optional...”

He had not foreseen the possibility of Lascelles picking him up by the lapels and slamming him against the wall. Perhaps he would have realized the man would be in his cups at the end of Christmas Eve. In truth, Childermass, too, had perhaps allowed himself enough wine to push him into a kind of mellow tipsiness. His lips twitched into a smile as he looked, unafraid, up into the glint of Lascelles’s dark eyes. “Rising to it, are we?”

Lascelles let go. “I apologize,” he said stiffly, and continued even more haughtily, “How can I convince you of the necessity of this venture? Do you not understand? It is this or selling my estate, and the word of that would surely get about.”

“A tragedy,” said Childermass, and laughed inside as Lascelles bristled. But it had been a long day, and his bed beckoned him, so he said, “I will think about it, Mr Lascelles. We will talk again in the morning.”

“Very well.” The man pulled himself up to his height, clenched his hands into fists behind his back—that little motion of his shoulder gave it away once again—and sniffed. “Then I say good-night for now. I will be at home tomorrow, but not to guests.”

“Wait,” said Childermass as Lascelles picked up his candlestick and turned towards the stairs. He pointed up above him at the bunch of mistletoe, where one more white berry hung upon the sprigs. “No kiss?” 

Lascelles stalked back and leaned towards him. The candlelight painted his vicious expression in splotches of gold and black, and for a moment Childermass truly could not guess what he might do. Henry Lascelles was rarely this close to him, and this intensity and strangeness plucked a chord in Childermass. He wondered what he would do, should Lascelles lean in closer still, and found it curious he could not predict his own actions on that eventuality either. 

Then the man stepped back and in another moment was gone, leaving behind the smell of brandy and perfume. 


	6. Chapter 6

Lascelles had held off selling any sets of clothes that were still more or less in style and so attended church on Christmas morning without anything about his person to suggest a diminution of means. True, he had walked, but St George’s was hardly far enough to warrant a carriage, even though the streets were getting slippery and treacherous, as predicted, in the wake of the recent freeze.

He was not in the habit of attending church regularly, and indeed had once upon a time made it a point of pride to disdain excessive religion, but one simply did not miss mass on Christmas Day, no matter how badly one still felt the previous night’s feasting. The pews were packed, and many more gathered in the back and in the gallery. Lascelles spoke to Mr and Mrs M— on the steps, exchanged greetings with Sir T—, and complimented Mr H— on his son receiving his first command at last. The lump in his throat diminished at every exchange. It reassured him that not everyone had heard what had been intimated at Sir Walter’s the previous evening. 

Lascelles had been in no mood for jollity, and had perhaps seemed preoccupied, but most attendees at Sir Walter’s Christmas Eve party had been far more concerned with finding polite ways to avoid mention Lady Pole or her illness, thus impregnating the dinner and the festivities with just that looming topic. The lovely, if still country-ish Mrs Strange had disappeared into the house before dinner and remained there, presumably to sit by her ladyship while the guests dined. Lascelles thought it all rather crude. Invalids should not be mentioned at all, unless very old and very used to their injuries. Norrell, of course, had stuck close to Mr Strange or stared blankly at tableware until addressed, leaving the task of affecting some normalcy to Lascelles. 

It had all been frightfully dull, even though the pudding was of excellent texture and the household, as usual, run like clockwork. Lascelles had always rather envied Sir Walter his butler. His thoughts had been with his remaining belongings, making a constant mental calculation of what item or servant he could hold on to with fifty a week, until Mr Drawlight had sidled up to him. 

Lascelles did not think Sir Walter had invited Drawlight, but one hardly needed to. Christopher Drawlight appeared where he wished, when he wished, and quite regardless of the wishes of anyone else; and yet, somehow, often found himself welcome. “You look a fright, my dear Lascelles,” he had opined in an intimate tone. “Whatever has gotten into you lately? Surely it isn’t the loss of the—”

“I do not look a fright,” Lascelles had retorted. “Do not attempt to play your games with me! I know you, recall. And you have been listening to gossip.”

“One ought always to listen to gossip. Especially when it is about money.”

“Balderdash.” 

“I do think the gentleman protests too much—” Drawlight had bitten his lower lip, perhaps warned off by something in Lascelles’s expression. “Then, I am sure you would not mind a game of cards? Friendly stakes, of course, it being Christmas.”

There were times Lascelles wished a gentleman might be allowed a modicum of swearing even in polite society, when the occasion called for it; on this instance, however, he had settled to telling Drawlight to go away and pester someone else. 

Despite himself, however, he had been unsettled. What Drawlight knew, everyone would know, unless Drawlight himself was paid for his silence, and at present Lascelles could not afford to do so. The thought of murder had idly skimmed the surface of his thoughts, but he did not seriously consider it. He would only be switching one type of ruination for another, worser one; at best, it would be a mere stop-gag. He needed a solution, a permanent one. That thought had consumed him the rest of the evening, and it had prompted him to offer Mr Norrell his company for the return journey as an excuse to come begging to John Childermass.

Impatience would have driven Lascelles from mass almost before the vicar began on the Hebrews, were he less conscious of appearances, but he slipped out like a ghost almost as soon as the congregation had risen. Outside, a crowd of hopeful beggars converged upon him, but he raised his walking-stick at them, and made his way through unmolested. His feet did not take him home towards Bruton-street and its ever-emptier rooms, but to Hanover-square and Childermass, and moreover Norrell’s seemingly infinite coffer. 

He went over his plans as he walked. He had sold his carriage and horses and would travel by post. A letter ought to be sent before-hand to secure lodgings, perhaps through a promising solicitor’s office. Fortunately his uncle the Admiral had offered his recommendations freely upon hearing of the loss of the Genevieve. He would live frugally, dining in, and bringing with him only Smythe. The rest of his servants he meant to let go before he left, and the house would be opened for potential renters upon his departure—he had determined this to be a better scheme than selling, now that the need for ready money was less. 

The sooner he shed London’s mud the better. He did have enough to travel, if not to sue, even without Norrell’s money, but what he spent now he would not recover unless his insurers capitulated—which was far from a given—and every penny lost would diminish his interest the following year. His pay might enable him to avoid embarrassment entirely, should all go well. 

Norrell’s footman expressed confusion when he asked for Childermass instead of Norrell, but upon a less patient repetition, he showed Lascelles into the hall and went below through that surreptitious door Lascelles now knew to be the entrance to the servants’ quarters. He came up a moment later with that idiotic expression still intact, asking for Lascelles to come down below, where Mr Childermass would meet him in the butler’s pantry. 

Lascelles worked his jaw loose by a sheer act of will, drew himself up and strode past the man, yanking the door open with some force. He would be diplomatic; he would be patient. The stairs were narrower and steeper than he was used to, and he felt as if he filled the passage to an uncomfortable degree. Vile, utterly vile, but to a good purpose—indeed, a necessary one. 

Bodies moved in the smoky interior, barely brighter during the day than at night, but Lascelles refused to meet the eye of any serving girls or footmen. He found Childermass seated in the cramped space, with a small desk and rough shelving for ledgers and books on one side and the household silverware stacked in cupboards on the other. He was reading the morning’s paper, his feet up on a stool below a desk. They dropped heavily onto the floor as Lascelles entered. 

“Is this your idea of privacy?” Lascelles demanded. 

Childermass raised his eyebrows. “Close the door, then.” The gravel in his voice crept up Lascelles’s spine, sparking electricity at the back of his neck.

Lascelles obeyed, reminding himself once again to remain cordial. “You said we could talk this morning.”

Childermass nodded. Down here, Lascelles noted, he did not bother straightening his necktie, and Lascelles found it insolently untidy. He wondered briefly if Childermass had slept down here somewhere, and had not quite finished his toilette. “So I did. Well, Mr Lascelles, you will be happy to know that the issue of the secretary’s ledger has been resolved. It was an easy task for Mr Strange to locate it.”

“Of course, very good. My plan to travel—”

Childermass cut him off. “And so the immediate need for your assistance is satisfied. For the future, I am sure, we will be able to manage without you until we find someone else. So you are free to travel if you wish, and to settle your own affairs in whatever way you see best. There will be no more money.”

A chill went down Lascelles’s back. The man could not possibly mean it. To lower him like this for nothing— To dangle salvation and snatch it away— What kind of a man— No, it could not be true. “You are teasing me again. Why do you insist—”

Childermass leaned back, the chair creaking under him in that infuriating way. “Of course, if you’d like to continue with us, I am sure Mr Norrell could pay you the far more reasonable sum of three pounds a week for your penmanship.”

“Three pounds! Three pounds!” Lascelles repeated as if in a dream. 

He had known of gentlemen who had avoided debtors’ prison by submitting themselves to some lowly profession, disappearing quietly from polite society into accounting-houses and the private homes of country lords. He was now, for the first time, forced to imagine himself in such a role, and it seemed to him no less than the loss of everything that had ever mattered to him; the very end of who he knew himself to be. Nothing felt quite real.

He no longer saw the pantry, or Childermass, or the newspaper on the desk, opened at the shipping news.


	7. Chapter 7

Lascelles was staring into the wall behind Childermass, a look of such open horror on his face as might have moved another man to pity. Childermass glanced down at the newspaper. Under his thumb was the list of ships docked in Liverpool the previous week. One of them was the _Arsinoë_ , commissioned by a Mr Henry Lascelles. 

The joke had been carried far enough, he reckoned. He need only hand Lascelles the newspaper and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Lascelles might be rattled, even lash out, but he would soon forget he had ever been nearly ruined. He would return to his complacent presumption of superiority. Nothing learned, no perspective gained. And Childermass found he would very much like to teach Henry Lascelles some perspective. 

He closed the newspaper and folded it. “Perhaps I can help you, sir,” he said, and then repeated himself more loudly. Lascelles blinked and focused his eyes on him with apparent effort. “It so happens I am this very noon to depart for Liverpool. I am going by horseback, for I know the way well. It occurs to me there is nothing to stop you from joining me, provided you are not afraid of a long ride in rough weather. We may lodge together on the way, and so save your precious pennies.”

“I—This morning? But it is Christmas Day.”

“Aye, and my business is to be concluded by Twelfth Night. Given the weather, I have precious little time to waste.” When Lascelles did not respond, he continued, “Are you perhaps detained here in London, then, with the selling of your beautiful vases and furniture, and the warm society of your friends?” 

“I can make arrangements,” said Lascelles. His eyes still held that faraway look, but his mouth turned downwards in displeasure at the mention of society. 

“Very good, then,” said Childermass. “I can delay my departure until this afternoon, to give you time to pack and set your household in order. I expect you to be ready to ride at least an hour or two before dark.” 

Lascelles accepted and left, but the man’s manner was so changed by shock that Childermass could not be sure if he would follow through on his word. Indeed, he did not really expect him to. Nonetheless he quietly went through his own arrangements for a few weeks’ absence and made up Brewer’s packs for a long ride, just in case. 

The question of what to do with Lascelles had been on his mind over the past few days. Despite what he had said, no-one else leaped to mind who could fulfill his role; yet needs had a way of being met, given enough urgency, and Lascelles’s requested salary had been quite preposterous. Childermass would have to admit that the return of the _Arsinoë_ was convenient, for all it robbed him of the pleasure of seeing Lascelles knocked down a few pegs on the social ladder. 

But why should that be all? Why shouldn’t he carry the game on for another week or two? Even a man as conceited as Henry Lascelles might be persuaded to change his opinion of himself if he were forced to truly live a different life. He would have Lascelles not as he was, but as someone more persuadable. More biddable. Altogether sweeter and more amiable… 

He laughed to himself as he brushed down Brewer, his breath puffing steam against the horse’s shining flank. A sweet and amiable Henry Lascelles! It would mean stripping away everything that made him who he was. And yet that was precisely the opportunity Childermass had been afforded. That might well be worth a long ride in midwinter. 

And so, when at one o’clock that afternoon Davey relayed the message that Lascelles was once again asking for him, Childermass greeted the news with certain pleasurable anticipation. He had no particular plan of action, but intended only to see what would come of the situation. Then again, perhaps Lascelles had read the paper by now, and had come to mock and denounce him, and it would all come to naught. 

He found Lascelles waiting outside of Norrell’s coach-house, wrapped in a greatcoat and a cape of wonderful quality, his feet in the stirrups of a snow-white mare. The mare, sparingly laden, danced lightly on the street until her master settled her with a pull of reins and a pat on her neck. Childermass could tell at once that she was no pack-horse but a field hunter, nimble and powerful. How she would do on a trek across snowbound country, he could not tell; only that she was unlikely to have attempted anything of the sort before. 

“As you have forced me to hasten, I have,” said Lascelles. That morning’s shock had apparently worn off, for the impatience in his voice was again much like the gentleman Childermass had always known. “Do not tell me you yourself are still unprepared?” 

“Not at all, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass, barely able to contain his merriment. “I’ll just fetch my coat and my horse, if you don’t mind.”

The sun would set in only a few hours, but by then they should have reached Wembly Green, and from there the road to Harrow should be well-marked and oft-travelled enough to follow even in the dark. That should be far enough for the first leg of a long journey for someone who was not in the habit of venturing outside the comforts of a carriage. He explained this to Lascelles as he saddled up Brewer. The big stallion snorted and tossed his head, perhaps protesting the idea of being out in such weather, but submitting to the treatment nonetheless. 

“I know the road to Harrow,” said Lascelles. 

The air in the coach-house smelled of hay and manure, and it was almost warm; on top of the coal Norrell (or rather Childermass) splurged on the horses, heat leaked in through the wall it shared with the kitchen. The stable-boy brought the mare oats and praised her beauty under his breath. Lascelles did not seem to notice, but frowned and fidgeted with the mare’s reins. “You have explained our absence to Mr Norrell?” 

“My own, yes,” said Childermass. “You will have to explain yourself.”

Lascelles nodded and sniffed. The cold air had turned the tip of his Roman nose pink, Childermass noted. “I will write to him from Harrow, then.” Little else needed to be said for the moment.

The two struck out down Oxford-street to a few curious looks. While they had likely amazed all of Norrell’s staff, to any other onlookers they might have been going only some short distance on business judging by how light both their bags were, yet they made an incongruous pair: One beautifully dressed with a tall fashionable hat and the best quality of boots, the other a dull shadow on an unlovely mount; and between them, a crackling coolness pregnant with some future thunder. 


	8. Chapter 8

The night seemed to arrive even earlier than expected, but it was only the shadow of great gathering clouds that made it seem so. Lascelles had caught Childermass glancing up only once, but he could not keep his own eye from wandering to the sky. They had passed out of city limits and further, beyond the point where other men’s lights could guide them back to civilization. They had their own lanterns, but if the road disappeared under heavy snowfall, there would be nothing for them to see by their light but endless drifts—like a still, white sea from which trees poked out like skeletal fingers. 

“We must stop, sir,” he said at last, unable to contain himself. “It is clear we will not get beyond Wembly Green tonight. It would be madness to try. There is a serviceable public house in the village, as I recall.” 

He half expected a rebuke for his squeamishness, or open mockery—that Childermass should know by some obscure signs which way the road to Harrow ran, and would be amazed that Lascelles did not know it. But Childermass merely intoned his assent. “The Barley Mow. Yes, I fear we must.”

Any further arguments Lascelles may have been concocting in his defense had therefore to be held back. He could not describe to Childermass the winters in rural Oxfordshire, or how often his father had taken him hunting even in the dead of winter, or how he often took to long rides when he was in the country; he could not argue that he was not some creature confined to Mayfair and Bath, and that he knew very well that it would be foolish to ignore such a clear sign of more snow to come. He had simply been agreed with, and for that he felt at once both relieved and deflated. 

The darkness seemed to chase after them as they urged their horses through the snow. Berenice stepped carefully and lightly, her hooves as sure as in any field or thicket, but shied whenever a cart rollicked past them on the road, and seemed to grow more uncertain as night descended. Lascelles was beginning to tire of calming the nervous mare, and though it was not a thing he would have gladly admitted, he was greatly relieved to see the faint lights of Wembly Green village emerge ahead. By then, the falling snow obscured the air like thin Dutch lace, the sky was a black expanse of cloud, and his fingers were numb inside their buckskin gloves. 

The brightest lights in the village were those of the inn. Candlelight flickered in nearly every window of its three floors, and the staff had lit several lanterns outside in the yard to guide travelers to its door. In the midst of a mounting blizzard, it was the very picture of cheer and comfort. They dismounted by the lanterns, and a stable-boy hurried out under a hooded cloak to take the reins of their horses. 

Lascelles wiped the snow from his face as he entered the great room of the inn, Childermass having gone to the stables to see to Berenice and Brewer’s treatment. It was quiet for a public house so close to an oft-frequented road, with only a few stragglers like themselves for custom, which Lascelles put down to the season. Holly and other greenery still decorated the windows and tables as well as the dark, sturdy bar; there was the smell of stew wafting in from the kitchens, and the great fireplace was piled high with logs. He headed for it and took off his gloves, settling himself on the fender and reaching his fingers towards the heat. 

Warmth and shelter had been Lascelles’s only thought for the last hour; now that those had manifested, he found he was hungry and tired as well. The stew tempted him greatly, as did the thought of a bed. He tried to recall the usual cost of a dinner and a room at an inn, and calculate just how far what money he had brought with him would go. He had been surprised to find himself turning into quite a penny-pincher in his new circumstances. Next he would be rationing coal or letting his horse go unshoed, or, God forbid, allowing his stock of new linen to run low. He allowed himself a wry smile. All that and more may yet come to pass.

“Your horse is well settled in the stables,” said the familiar voice, and it was the first Lascelles had noticed his companion’s approach. 

“Ah, very good. Thank you.” So eager had he been for his own comfort that he had not thought twice about Berenice. It would not do to neglect her so in the future, if she was to carry him across the country. He rubbed his hands together and held them out once again. The return of sensation was not entirely pleasant. “And dinner?” 

Childermass clucked his tongue and settled beside him on the fender. Snow still clung to his boots, Lascelles noted. “Mr Lascelles, am I to take it you expect me to take care of all your transactions on this journey?”

“No,” Lascelles admitted. “I have no such illusions after our recent conversation at Hanover-square. I merely wondered if you had ordered it.” He considered the numbers for a while. ”I say, would you have any objection to sharing a bed with me?” He turned to look at the other man, but Childermass did not answer, and the flickering firelight did not allow him to read his expression, so he continued, “I do not intend to stay up to read for very long, certainly not beyond one or two o’clock at night. If it does not suit, we will not attempt it again, and I will simply have to bear the cost of a separate bed.”

“No,” said Childermass at last. “I do not mind.”

They took their dinner in their room, a simple small chamber not far from the central chimney, with a heavily curtained window and a cross upon the wall, a sturdy bed pushed against the wall and a small writing-desk under the window. The stew was hot and plentiful, and though it hardly caressed one’s palate, Lascelles finished his plate and the weak, sorry ale without complaint, and only a touch of regret that there was no brandy to warm him up. But brandy would have been another unnecessary expense. How Childermass liked the fare, he did not note; they still barely spoke to one another.

It was not until he was warm, fed, and out of his wet boots, watching Childermass drape his coat over one of the two chairs, that Lascelles began to be conscious of the queerness of their situation. Sharing a bed with one’s travelling-companion was nothing out of the ordinary, but the two of them were not friends, not in the least. He hesitated on the buttons of his own waistcoat. How would it feel to lie sleeping so close to this man, who he was sure must dislike him as much as Lascelles disliked him? What assurances could Lascelles have that he would not wake up with a pillow over his face? 

He shook his head and undid a few buttons. Childermass had no reason to murder him and had not got into his cups enough to do something so foolish without great provocation. And, after all… 

His fingers paused once again on the buttons. He swallowed. 

After all, was that really the reason he felt such unease? Had he forgotten, with all that he had to preoccupy him in the past weeks, that fact only half-acknowledged, yet so starkly obvious the moment he allowed himself to think of it—that he desired this man?

It put his teeth on edge to allow the thought now, without the benefit of somnolence or drink to cushion it. The way his imagination had had a tendency to wander in Childermass’s direction— How he had idly, foolishly pictured seducing him, while simultaneously dismissing the idea as impossible—impossible, he now realized, not because Lascelles would not have stood for it, but because _Childermass_ never would.

A spike of anger managed to pierce through his exhaustion and dismay. One’s imagination was one’s own business. Lascelles did not _choose_ to pursue servants, let alone ones who thought so ill of him, no matter what fantasies some perverted part of him—some remainder of his younger, wilder self—might concoct around them. He resumed his undressing with no more hesitation and soon threw off his outer clothes to the end of the bed. He climbed under the cool covers and curled into himself, waiting for the warmth to settle in.

He turned to the wall and did not look as Childermass crawled into bed on the other side, letting a waft of cool air into the cocoon of blankets. He thought only briefly of the forearms he had seen on hot days in the library at Hanover-square, when Childermass had rolled up his sleeves to write letters at his small desk, or of the curve of his stockinged calf, or that fall of unruly hair brushing at his twisted smile, of his thumb at his lips as he licked it to turn a page.

Lascelles was standing in the library, dabbled sunlight blotting the floor, and Childermass turned and looked him in the eye. There was no disdain or anger in his expression, only a soft invitation in his parting lips as he called his name. 

He had forgotten all about his intention to read, which was just as well, as he was asleep before his feet had even had a chance to warm. . 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: I went back and checked and edited the previous chapters before writing this, so there are a lot of minor changes in the language and some fine-tuning of characterisation, but no past events have been changed.

“Mr Lascelles?”

Lascelles’s back was turned to Childermass, his shoulder rising and falling in time with his breathing. Childermass brought his candle closer and leaned over to confirm it—the man had indeed dropped off sweetly and easily like a small child, and at an hour at which he would still be expecting to be called in to supper, were they in London. 

An afternoon’s rough riding could do that. Childermass was himself feeling that lassitude which cold weather can engender, but his mind was too active for rest. There was much to occupy it. Their strange quest, Lascelles’s distracted manner, the oddness of seeing that pale neck exposed on the pillow next to his, and the snow, which had not stopped falling all evening. 

Lascelles had proven a hardier companion than Childermass had expected, though the onslaught of weather had spared them an even longer ride. He had not complained even once, nor had he found reasons to disagree with Childermass, nor even spoken very much at all, which was just as well. So long as Lascelles said nothing, he could not vex Childermass with the vastness of his ignorance. (Mr Lascelles was a clever man, but only in his own way and in his own field; it never ceased to amaze Childermass how little he understood of the lives of those whose work supported his wealth and comfort.) Down below in the bar-room of the inn, he had been almost cordial. He had, in short, offered Childermass no quarrel, but also no insight into the workings of his mind, nor any sign that his new circumstances had opened it to that greater understanding that Childermass wished to impress upon him. 

The ends of Lascelles’s pale hair curled against the top of his neck, and the line of his spine was drawn out in shadow. One could almost forget that gentlemen had any neck at all under their starched collars. It was thinner than Childermass had imagined, and the sight almost too intimate, something meant only for one’s valet or lover. 

He shook his head to himself. Lascelles had not exposed an inch of himself that mattered. 

It was early, still, in the venture. He had lain down his stakes, and they would have to wait and see what hand they were dealt before he would know if it had all been worth it. There was nothing more he could do now to solve the problems of tomorrow, so he set the candlestick down beside the bed and settled down to wait for sleep.

Once in the next three hours, he thought he felt his companion sit up, sit quietly for a while, and then return to sleep. 

When he woke up, it was still dark, and Lascelles was (still? once again?) snoring gently at his side. He groped for the candle, already sputtering, and climbed out of bed. The floor felt cold as ice under his bare feet, but he found a new candle and lit it from the dying flame of the old. He guessed it must be an hour or so after midnight. He took his candle to the window, but it could show him nothing but frost flowers and a thickening shroud of snow against the glass. He pulled the curtains back over the window to stop the cold seeping in. 

When he was just about to return to bed with his pencil and memorandum book, his companion stirred, and asked for writing-paper. “Suit yourself, of course, sir,” said Childermass, “but you will freeze the skin off your bones if you sit up to write with pen and ink at this hour.” 

Lascelles did not argue this time either, but simply slumped back into the covers and was quiet once more.

It was perhaps this that would account for the fact that, when Childermass awoke next, Lascelles had already slipped out of bed and was about his morning toilet. Childermass had dreamt of a door opening and closing, and of a conversation, but it was the sound of water being poured that woke him up the rest of the way.

Lascelles had propped a travelling mirror where the little table met the wall, and had his shaving things laid out next to a bowl of water. A pair of fresh candles lit the scene. Childermass wiped his eyes and his face to wake himself up, but did not care to rise. By his bones and the quality of the light, he knew they were in no hurry now. 

Lascelles swore, and Childermass saw him dabbing at his chin with a handkerchief. It came off with a splotch of something dark on it. Childermass smiled. “Not managing so well without your valet, are you, Mr Lascelles?” 

Lascelles head rose and he turned half-way towards him, but did not seem surprised to find Childermass awake. “It isn’t the lack of a valet so much as the lack of proper heating. I am sorry I ever spoke well of this place. One may expect numb fingers in the country, I suppose.” He flexed his fingers—fine, long, unsullied hands—and took up his razor once more. 

“Allow me,” Childermass heard himself saying, and swung his legs out from under the covers. In truth, it was not the coldest inn he had stayed in during winter, and would likely warm up decently once the fires had been lit for some time. He padded across the few steps and took the razor from Lascelles. 

The man had gone quite still, but relinquished the blade. Childermass wetted it and examined it closer to the candles. It was finer and sharper than his own; he would have to keep that in mind, or Lascelles would soon be bleeding again. 

Lascelles seemed to change his mind and held out his hand. “Thank you, but I am sure I can manage.” But his hand still shook; his back was stiff, his teeth set in his head. Cold could take a man like that sometimes, before he moved about and warmed himself up. Childermass snatched his hand back. 

“It won’t take a minute, sir. I don’t mind.” He placed his fingers on Lascelles’s chin and lifted it up, exposing his neck. The man submitted without another protest, and Childermass scraped the blade carefully through the lather. 

If anything, Lascelles was even more quiet and thoughtful throughout the rest of their morning routine. The house was waking up; in the hallway they could hear the sound of feet shuffling to and fro, and even the floorboards seemed to warm up as the chimneys belched smoke out into the sky, invisible behind the fall of snow. 

Childermass went down below to the bar-room to inquire for their breakfasts and confirm his suspicions of the weather. When he returned, Lascelles was busy blotting out a letter. He looked up, but focused on Childermass’s hands, as if expecting him to be carrying him a cup of coffee. Well, the gentleman could fetch his own coffee, as far as Childermass was concerned. “That won’t reach Norrell in a hurry,” he said. 

“I suppose the roads are very bad,” said Lascelles. 

“More than that, I’m afraid. We are snowed in.”

Now Lascelles deigned to look him in the eye, startled out of his reflective state. “You don’t mean to say…” 

“Even should the skies clear before noon,” Childermass said, measuring out his words, “we are not leaving Wembly Green for at least another couple of days.”


	10. Chapter 10

Lascelles was not sure why he should be so surprised. Had he given the matter a moment’s thought, it should have been obvious. He had not been thinking. Or rather, he had not been thinking of the weather. 

He looked down at his letter to Norrell, pressed his lips together in determination, folded it and addressed it. It would arrive when it arrived. It was barely worth dipping his pen again to add a post-script that they had been delayed. These things happened when one travelled in winter. “That is unfortunate,” he said at last. “Well, then, I suppose I ought to consider visiting the Manor after all. I know the Pages slightly, and I expect we could rely upon their hospitality under the circumstances.”

“Another night at the inn won’t kill you,” said Childermass and leaned back against the door jamb, crossing his arms. Somedays Lascelles did wonder if the man knew how to stand straight. “Or is it the quality of your fellow lodgers you object to?”

“Don’t be absurd. We are on no pleasure jaunt. It does not matter in the least whether we are comfortable. If I wanted comfort, I might have stayed at home.” In empty rooms, with the barest of furniture? He moved on. “But the Pages will not charge us, and there may be news of Harrow and Oxfordshire roads that could serve us well.”

“You would trust such news from the master of the manor, and not from the good folk of the coaching inn?”

Lascelles was becoming impatient. It seemed they could not talk but they would quarrel. “Forget it, then. We will not burden the Pages.” He turned back to his letter, and, finding it already folded and in need of no more attention, merely glowered at it a moment, and then cleaned his blotter with perhaps more force than necessary. 

By the time he had finished pointedly tidying up his writing-implements and locking them up in their travelling-box, the sun had risen high enough to paint the room in pale half-light, and Childermass had gone downstairs, likely in search of more agreeable company. Lascelles sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. He reached over to the curtain—it was only a very small room—and flipped it back to let in more light. Outside, the world was blinding white. The room itself appeared by this light very grey and colourless, and the cracks in the bare walls showed to its disadvantage. The place seemed to him very cheerless. He let the curtain fall back in its place and went to the door to call down a maid to bring him breakfast. 

What was he to do for a night or two more in this place between places? This nowhere stopover? All his life was out there beyond this white wall of snow. Even the social catastrophe he was facing stood still, frozen in place, waiting for him to struggle his way back to it. Were Lascelles a different sort of man—someone more given to foolish sensibilities—he might consider his position very lonely. He was certainly alone out here. He did not even particularly like the Pages, but he regretted all the same that he had allowed Childermass to talk him out of calling on them. It seemed like one last chance before he would be quite alone, shut up in the country or worse—employed. 

His cheese and bread arrived with a cup of bitter coffee and jug of ale, and he sat down to eat and think, and as he ate his mood improved. It was certainly true that there would be very little society of the right sort in the village of Uthcaire. But then, he reminded himself, there was the old doctor and his family, and it was not that very far to the Berkeleys’ residence. Perhaps the reverend had married, or would marry, and add to genteel society that way. Why, he believed the living was his to give, should it fall vacant—opportunity may arise to bring a more agreeable friend to his neighbourhood, perhaps someone he remembered from college. He skirted the idea of marrying himself, but he was inclined to think more agreeable thoughts, so he imagined the house in a better state of repair, the production of the land better organized along modern lines, and what he might do with the wallpaper in the long gallery, quite forgetting that he would not have the money to do anything with it at all. 

While he ate, he pondered, and finally determined upon a plan. He covered his empty plate, put on his coat and hat, and went below in search of Childermass. The bar-room was largely deserted, with a girl sweeping the straw off the floor and a lad stocking the great fireplace with fresh logs, and a solitary, weather-beaten customer at the bar. He asked the boy, but he did not know where Mr Lascelles’s friend had gone. 

“I may be able to help,” said the customer, who was dressed in long leather riding trousers and had an accent that placed him somewhere in the pretender classes; his intonation was sophisticated, but he was not born to it, and to Lascelles’s ear the difference was clear. “I stop here often and so I know everything there is to be seen in Wembly Green. Perhaps he has gone to visit Polly Atkins’s establishment?”

Lascelles thanked the man but informed him it would not be necessary. Privately he thought the great green jewel in the man’s cravat pin must surely be paste. 

He found Childermass at the coach-house, drinking steaming leaf-tea with the stablemaster in his office by the horse-stalls. Now that he had found him, Lascelles was rather put off to find him in the company of another. What right had he to socialize when Lascelles, by virtue of his class, had no-one to talk to? “Any news of the roads?” he asked after the awkward business of introductions was done (he had not planned on ever being introduced to a stablemaster). 

The roads, it turned out, were very bad, and Harrow reported particularly inpenetrable. Only fools and highwaymen travelled in such conditions, and as it was Christmastide, most business could wait until the weather cleared.

“It occurs to me that we would not lose very much time if instead of Harrow in the north, we travel east towards Wycombe.” The stablemaster’s thin brows raised at this, and he looked at Childermass for explanation. It vexed Lascelles that he should need to be discussed at all by such persons. 

“Why should we do that?” asked Childermass. “The snow won’t be much less in that direction.” 

“We shouldn’t lose more than a day or two if we go by Oxfordshire,” said Lascelles. “It is nearly a forthnight still before Twelfth Night.” This was not quite right, but even so a week and a half was plenty, in his mind. “Nor do we need to ride out tonight. I am more than happy to wait until tomorrow for better weather. I notice it has stopped snowing.”

“You have not answered my question, sir.” 

Lascelles tutted. “If you must know, I should like to visit Uthcaire. I’d like to see what state my house is before I decide what to do in Liverpool.” 

Perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps he had been worrying about nothing. 


	11. Chapter 11

The weather may have been improving, but by what magic Mr Lascelles expected the snow to blow off or be trampled enough for easy travel by the following day, Childermass did not know. Nonetheless, the man seemed quite determined, and since in truth Childermass had no particular business in Liverpool to attend to, in the end he did not oppose the plan. Should the way be entirely barred to them tomorrow, what would it matter? It would be obvious soon enough and they could return to the Barley Mow, or struggle on to the next town and the next inn. It would make little difference.

Lascelles seemed cheered by this change of plans, and settled in to enjoy wine and wittles at in the inn parlour while making notes in his memorandum book, so Childermass went up to their shared room and lay out his cards upon the little table. He was not usually shy of showing the Cards of Marseilles, but he had some questions to put to them about his companion as well as the way they still had to go. 

In his first laying of cards, the Hanged Man appeared along with the Five of Pentacles reversed, which told him nothing he did not already know. In the second, the Fool marched off in the direction of Six of Swords, reversed. Seven of Swords, Four of Pentacles showed up. Yet more adversity. 

He read them over and over, and at the end of it he sighed, rubbed his nose, and gathered them together. The gist of it was, as he understood it, that pressing on would be dangerous and foolhardy, and the rewards may come to nothing. Perhaps he was not asking the right questions. 

He went to the window and brushed aside the curtain to gaze up at the white sky. What magic, indeed. He did know a few spells of pathfinding that might help, and a spell to calm winds, and a spell to make the sun come out. He did not know if any of them would work. He thought, also, of a spell to hide oneself as a flurry of wintry weather, should he grow tired of Mr Lascelles’s complaining. 

Not that Lascelles had been complaining nearly as much as he usually did. At Hanover-square, the servants had had to learn Mr Lascelles’s routine as well as Mr Norrell’s—how he took his brandy, when he was likely to request it, and how his customary writing-desk in the library should be arranged. He could not very well issue commands to another man’s servants, but nonetheless these things came to be understood as of vital importance. Childermass smiled to think of Lascelles hanging by one ankle on a tree-branch, like the Hanged Man in his cards, seeing the world from a new angle at last. 

But they were not quite there yet, were they? Lascelles’s demeanour confirmed that. With the return of his cheer—such cheer as his pride would let slip through that languid demeanour of sophistication—his arrogance seemed also to have reestablished itself. Childermass found him below complaining to the innkeeper about the quality of his sheets and the amount of butter in his stew, and the sputtering and insufficiency of the candles, and that his ink had partially frozen overnight, and that it had taken the boy a full half-hour to come deliver his message to the postmaster, so that it had surely missed the first post-chaise—quite forgetting the fact that the post-chaise was not likely to get very far in the weather. He had then sat down to play cards with some other travellers, and did not retire until after sundown. 

He had, Childermass noted, been drinking rather heavily since midday, and finished his evening by arguing with one of his fellow gamblers about the existence, real or imagined, of objects of magical power. He could not have announced himself more loudly to be Henry Lascelles, the friend of the magician of Hanover-square. This, though not exactly a calamity, gave Childermass some pause. Anonymity had always served him well, and for all his faults, he had not thought Lascelles a fool—or a man to lose his head to drink. 

When they did retire, Lascelles announced again his intention to read, and again failed to read so much as a line. This time, however, he did not go to sleep easily, but tossed and turned, and was still rolling when Childermass himself closed his eyes drifted off with practiced ease. 

He dreamed of the white sky and the white land, stretching on forever and ever, and the orb of the sun, also white, always just on the edge of sinking. 

He was already half awake when the clink of metal on glass woke him up the rest of the way. Lascelles was pouring himself a drink of water. Something told Childermass it was just past midnight. Lascelles drank and returned to bed, setting a fresh candle by the bedside. “You are awake?” he asked. 

Childermass turned to him, propping his head up on one elbow. “Aye.”

Lascelles seemed about to say something else, looked at him for quite some time, but reconsidered, and went instead to get his book, and so Childermass lay back down, curiously disappointed. He could not say why, but he had the sense that an opportunity had been missed. There seemed to be nothing to say, no small-hours confessions such as might be exchanged between friends or strangers in such intimate confines—after all, they were not exactly either of those things. They were a problem, Childermass thought as he yawned, waiting for sleep to creep back in, a riddle waiting for its solution. Perhaps it did not have one. He remembered his cards, and how all they had shown him was an obstacle after an obstacle. 

Lascelles may have sat up reading by candlelight for some time; Childermass did not know. 

The morning’s first paleness grazed the horizon somewhere beyond rooftops and trees when Childermass rose and dressed. Lascelles slept through this. He lay half-turned to the wall, half rolled on his back, his head thrown back and his lips slightly parted. Childermass regarded him quietly as the light grew (he had pulled back the curtain and allowed it in, even as it brought with a breath of frost). 

An asset, he reminded himself. That was what Lascelles had the potential to be, if he could be brought in line. If not, he could bring nothing but mayhem and misery by mixing his greed and his politics and his ignorance with the business of magic, and it was likely there was nothing Childermass would be able to do to prevent the damage. 

It was an odd thing, he noted, that he should need to remind himself of this at all. Here, away from London, with the necessity of civility for as long as they travelled together, it was easy—far too easy—to forget. 


	12. Chapter 12

Lascelles woke up with an unpleasant thrumming in his head. He did not remember what he had been dreaming of, save that in the last dregs of it there was the sensation of everything being wrong for a second, before being put back to right again. It felt rather like being at Hanover-square while Mr Norrell and Mr Strange were shut up upstairs, doing magic. 

But he was nowhere near Hanover-square, and it was the morning they were to continue out into the snow and the wind, towards Uthcaire. Back to business. He buried deeper under the covers, but the dull ache would not grow less, and he gave in and shifted reluctantly on his elbows. Childermass was sitting by the window, looking out, fully dressed and pensive. Not for the first time, Lascelles wished the man’s clothes were finer and his hair better kempt, if only so that his eye need not be offended by such a weathered, ugly, old-fashioned coat. “You should shave,” he found himself saying. 

“What?” Childermass looked around, taken aback for once. Lascelles smiled even through the pain in his head, the thickness of his tongue, and the brightness of the light that made him squint. 

“You should shave. You look a fright, as usual.”

“I shaved some days ago,” said Childermass, and Lascelles imagined there was a touch of laughter in his voice. 

“And you shaved me yesterday.” Lascelles pushed up off the bed and swung his legs out of bed. His feet protested as they touched the chilly floor. “Should I return the favour?”

“Thank you,” said Childermass in that infuriatingly ironic way of his, “but I have managed without a valet until now, and I don’t mean to hire one now.”

Was he trying to get a rile Lascelles up once again? Well, Lascelles would not be riled. He was far too thirsty and tired for that. The previous night’s takings at the low stakes gambling had barely been worth the bill for the brandy and wine he had drunk—and that he had found necessary, or he may not have been able to stomach the company’s low conversation and lack of good taste and learning. The fellow with the paste emerald had been there, as well as two of his friends, and a woman of some description. It did not much matter who they were. He had managed to avoid Childermass, and that had been his first goal. 

It was a fact, and not a pleasant one, that having become more aware of the embarrassing reaction he had to the man, his natural attitude towards Childermass was changing in rapid and uncomfortable ways. He did not wish to be in his company any longer than was necessary. He did not even dare to allow himself to become angry—he should never have allowed it in the first place—indeed, it seemed to form part of the problem. Was it to be cold and miserable upon the roads? All the better to distract him. Who knew what might happen if he spent another comfortable, wine-addled night swaddled in bed with him? He shuddered at the thought, pressed his lips tight together, and gazed at Childermass with displeasure. 

As soon as they reached Uthcaire, and he had determined the true state of his finances, he would bid the man good-bye. Let him go on to Liverpool in this horrid weather—Lascelles would send letters instead, and follow in time in a post-chaise. 

“I _will_ shave you,” he said in a waspish tone. “Allow me one moment.”

He threw on his waistcoat over the shirt he had slept in and buttoned it quickly, then his coat and breeches for warmth, but did not bother with socks just yet. Childermass did not protest as Lascelles took out his shaving things and poured out a bowl of water from the pitcher, only watched him curiously, playing with his unlit pipe, even putting it between his lips as if he was about to smoke it. “You are serious, sir,” he said at last, when Lascelles instructed him to turn his chair towards the light. 

“Quite serious, sir.” 

Childermass’s dark eyes studied him as he bent his head back, exposing his neck to Lascelles’s blade. Lascelles thought murder with every stroke, as his fingertips gently guided Childermass’s head this way and that. He could feel his pulse under his skin. 

There was a certain sense of satisfaction in chasing each dark hair, and the result he achieved put him in almost a good mood. Childermass protested and made to rise when he took out the hair-brush that was part of his kit, but he pulled the man back by his long hair and brushed it violently until it lay very neat and curling softly against his back, newly tied. The curl, he noted with mixed feelings, was of a rather fashionable sort, now that it was neat; only far too long. 

“Happy?” asked Childermass. 

“Not particularly. There is little I can do to improve your clothes.” 

“I suppose they could be brushed.”

“Mm,” entoned Lascelles, who had no intention of touching such shabby things if he could help it. “I suppose they could be.”

They packed up their things and breakfasted in the inn parlour. Lascelles took his leave of it gladly. He supposed it had not been the worst inn he had stayed in. Some might consider it to have a certain rustic charm, with its muraled walls, the smell of cooking that seemed designed to waft through the parlour, its cozy nooks and relative quiet—but it was not beautiful enough to please him, and he did not regret its loss.

Berenice, he was satisfied to discover, had been well taken care of, and was calm and resigned to her fate when saddled up. The day had risen bright and sunny, with clear blue skies above. A stroke of luck, and he said as much to Childermass, who smiled his sideways smile and agreed that it was. 

They struck out west towards Uxbridge. Lascelles had consulted his map before, and knew the road from Wembly Green would meet up with another road he knew very well, which began in Harrow some way northwest from their current location. The weather was still punishingly cold, and he expected he would be quite miserable by the time they stopped for the night, however many hours from now, but that was in the future. At the moment, with the sunlight and the roll of Berenice’s strong back under him, it was difficult to feel anything but optimistic.

At the door of the Barley Mow, a man with an emerald in his tie-pin nodded at a friend of his, who happened to be standing by with his horse outside the yard, and then went back inside for his coat. The friend waited a moment, then clicked his tongue and dug his heel into his bay’s side. The horse trotted after the odd London pair, far enough behind not to be noticed, but just close enough to keep them in the rider's sights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research for early 19th century English roads and locations is minimal. Feel free to correct me, but some possible errors will just have to stand.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, so nitpicky C&C welcome!


End file.
